


On the staircase

by CactusWren



Series: Finger Exercises [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Mentions of Suicide, PTSD, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 14:18:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CactusWren/pseuds/CactusWren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Followup (authorized!) to 221B_Marauder's "Waking is worse than the nightmare"</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the staircase

**Author's Note:**

  * For [221B_Marauder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/221B_Marauder/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Waking is worse than the Nightmare](https://archiveofourown.org/works/486074) by [221B_Marauder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/221B_Marauder/pseuds/221B_Marauder). 



> The short pieces I post to the KinkMeme are mostly in the nature of finger exercises for writing: just playing around, seeing if I can fill a prompt (usually not in the nature of anything I'd normally write) while remaining true to the characters as I see them and keeping my writing muscles in shape. So I've called this loose assemblage, mostly of prompt fills, the Finger Exercises series.

 

“ _There ain't any_ safe _fucking way to wake me up.” – George W. Hayduke_

 

There's only one thing to do. He can't take this chance again. The risk is too great. He gropes for his shoes, clumsily pulls them on. After a moment, not looking at Sherlock, he levers himself to his feet.

Sherlock has hauled himself up to his knees, sitting back on his heels. “John – what – ”

“Don't try to talk.” Jaw set, John makes his way to the door.

“But – ” A little unsteady still, Sherlock gets to his feet.

Still facing away, John pulls his jacket on. “I'll send someone tomorrow for my things. Harry, maybe. You've never met Harry, have you? You'll like her. She's – good.” He stops for an instant, hand on the door. Can't say “thank you”. Can't say “goodbye”. Can't say “I'm sorry.” Can't say anything.

He hesitates too long. Sherlock slips through the kitchen door and stands on the stairs, two steps below, facing him. “Don't,” he rasps.

John can't look at him, at his battered face, at the bruises on that long neck. “You shouldn't talk. Rest your throat.”

He tries to step past, but Sherlock blocks his way. Takes his mobile phone from his pocket; gives John an inquiring look. “Text?” he husks.

John fights back an insane urge to laugh. Or scream. Oddly fitting, in a mirror-image way: the first time they ever met, Sherlock had said he preferred texting. And now – “Sure.” He takes out his own, awkwardly, with his right hand. His left hand is all but useless, spasming into a fist.

The phone chimes in his hand. _Don't go._

“I have to.” It's easier, if he can look down at the phone. Not try to meet those seagreen eyes.

_Stay. Please._

“I can't, it's … not safe. This is better.”

_I'm afraid._

A choking burst of breath escapes him. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock, _so am I!”_

The next message takes longer, Sherlock's thumbs flying over the keys. _I'm afraid you'll step in front of a bus and hope people will think it's an accident._

John turns away, facing the wall. Wishes he could fall into it and vanish, simply cease to exist. His left hand is actively cramping now, and his shoulder feels bruised, and someone is trying to pry his right kneecap off with a fork. “I promise, I will not commit suicide and make it look accidental.”

A ferocious scowl, thumbs rapping sharply: _NOT REASSURING._

Then, _What happened was my fault. You were having a nightmare and I know you startle easily._

_Should have anticipated how you'd react._

“Sherlock … ” He tries to keep his voice from trembling. Fails. “I might have killed you.”

_But you didn't._

“If I'd had my gun – ”

_You didn't._

“But _if!”_ It bursts out of him. “If I'd had _any_ weapon at hand. Or if I'd – kept my grip, just a few seconds longer – ”

_You DIDN'T._

“Not _this_ time, but what about the next?” In desperation he lashes out, the most vicious and hurtful thing he can think of to say, only trying to get Sherlock to step aside – “Is that what this is? Just another way of proving you're smarter than anyone else? 'Risk your life to prove you're clever' – and now you've got me, a constant risk, conveniently installed right at your flat? No, you wouldn't want to lose that, would you?”

Sherlock looks up at him. If something changes in that smooth face, it's quickly concealed. Then:

_That might be marginally more convincing if you could even pretend to believe it yourself._

Then: _If you go out now. If I go back upstairs with these marks. If you walk out, and tomorrow I hear that_

A pause.

_That something bad has happened. Or even if you just don't come back._

_What shall I tell Mrs Hudson?_

John stands still, thunderstruck.

_You aren't alone any more, John._

_Your leaving will HURT people._

Without looking up from the screen, Sherlock forces himself to audibility, a voice like a scar: “John, what happened last year. At – at Bart's. I saw you. Then. And – after, at the graveyard. I saw.”

He still doesn't raise his head. Something falls from his face onto the mobile phone.

“What I did to you – in God's name, don't do that to me.”

Shaking hands on the phone's keypad:

_don't leave me alone_

For a long moment, John stands, frozen. Nothing in his memory has ever been as silent as this staircase is now. Sherlock is below him, two steps down – strange, to be looking _down_ at Sherlock. He takes one step down –

Sherlock steps aside.

No longer blocking the stairs. The way is open. All John has to do is move past him. They're only a single step apart now, almost at eye level – except that Sherlock is turned away, not looking at him, not meeting his eyes.

John stands still for a long time. Tries to form words. His voice is as choked off, as silenced, as Sherlock's own.

He puts one shaking hand on Sherlock's arm.

The whole long body starts slightly. The half-seen lips part. Slowly, almost fearfully, Sherlock raises his head.

Their eyes don't quite meet, but after a moment, John tilts his head towards the top of the stairs. Towards the door, and the _(never safe again) (only safe place)_ refuge of 221b.

Sherlock is still shaky, unsteady on his feet, and John's right leg is a knifelike agony at every step, and they do not quite look at each other. But together, one offering a steadying hand, the other a supporting arm, they make their way up the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> I freely admit this story's history and provenance are a bit ... odd. I'd posted a [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=120215071#t120215071) myself to the LJKM:  
>  _John always takes care to fall asleep in his own bed, never on the couch or in his chair. One evening, exhausted, he breaks this rule and dozes off, and has a nightmare: Sherlock tries to awaken him._  
>  _When John does wake up, the two of them are sprawled on the floor -- and his hands are around Sherlock's throat. Squeezing. Hard. A moment away from crushing Sherlock's larynx._
> 
> 221B_Marauder did such an effective job of [filling it](archiveofourown.org/works/486074), I couldn't resist writing a followup piece -- what happens next? Thanks, Marauder, for your wonderful inspiration.
> 
> The quote at the beginning is from _The Monkey Wrench Gang_ , by Edward Abbey.


End file.
